Of Sand In All Its Forms
by Ice Cold Absolution
Summary: Fourth and last in the abuse series. He never wanted children.


**AN: **Sorry this took so long, I've had lots of stuff going on recently. But here we go! Some references to T.S. Eliots's _The Waste Land_

Oh, and these caracters are in no way shape or form mine, they belong to J.K Rowling as does the magic and Hogwarts Express.

**Of Sand In All Its Forms.**

The day that Narcissa pushed out a boy he felt relieved. The months of having her waddle around, a disgrace to the name Malfoy were finally over and it hadn't been for nothing. But now his duty was done, the boy had been born and it would carry on the name and the blood would continue. If it were ever to dry up, so choked in its own dust that it could not run through the deserts anymore then the blame would not be able to be pinned onto him. He could have his wife and way of life back. Or at least, that was what he thought until he looked down on the thing. People always said that perfection should not have children; it should have its reproductive organs carved out (delicately, delicately so as not to spoil the finish) at birth in order to prevent such a thing. Children would spoil it, taint something indefinable and any creature that ever did manage to clamber out of the body wouldn't be quite right, it wouldn't work. Perfection couldn't give birth to perfection and its flaws would make it inhuman. People always said that he and his wife were perfect, the untrodden snow under a virgin moon. They didn't do anything to fix that as it was.

He never really wanted children. She didn't want children. They needed a vessel to continue the blood, the magic.

And that was that, he would have to move on.

And a few years on he couldn't quite remember what his son looked like, or to be honest, he had never really looked beyond seeing the flaws. But he was forced to come up with something when oppressively nosey friends came around and wanted to know how the little thing was doing, so there was a vague made up image in his head, never forgetting that disappointing moment. But it didn't really matter, wrongness always stayed fixed to things, dirty stains against china and no bleaching could return it to bone and he had been there at the moment it exited Narcissa. He had been eager for it to be done and waiting in a manner that could not have been described as anything but patient for however long it had taken the incompetent woman to push him out. And then there it had been. It was a boy, thank Merlin but she had managed even to mess that up, it had been some years ago now but he could still remember looking down and not seeing a perfect copy of himself. It was flawed, it was ugly and they were both not good enough and that was that.

Narcissa, as always, was forgiven eventually and the house elves looked after the child anyway, like they were all supposed to. They had to do something after all because they were supposed to be keeping the place clean and when he walked around he could smell dust in the air and the lazy things would scream out under their punishment that they had been busy with the child and he would be forced to take them off child duty for a week. It must have been at least four or five by then so surely it could have fended for itself for such a short period. And after all, it may have been disappointing to look at but it was the sole heir (he wasn't going to put himself through another period of having a pregnant wife) and thus it had to learn to be strong, to be a man. His heir would not be one who had to rely on help or parents to get him though and he had to learn that alone.

And people always told him that snow was forgetful and its sin bled through to others as layers of it began to settle, pressed wantonly against the ground, icing sugar turning into thick layers of crystallised cream until the ground was all white and even and it couldn't feel what was lying underneath itself anymore. If it couldn't feel it then it couldn't know it and no one who looked at the landscapes could quite remember that there was land beneath it, there were roots of trees, surfacing from the mud to try to catch a gasp of air but hitting only more layers of deceit working their way into it. They all forgot that there was grass and flowers and children that had sat down for too long while it was all falling.

"What is that noise?" she whispered to him in the dark. "Nothing, my love, nothing."

They hadn't been looking at snow when they had totally forgotten; they had been looking at the ocean, black in the failing light and angry at the spells that were holding it back from rocking the yacht. They had been looking at each other and remembering perfection. She was his wife and that was that and when they kissed he could taste the exotic wrongness of iced juice in the winter and the salt air and the tears of someone he never knew. They dreamed of never growing old, of never stepping foot back on dry land and when they were too cold to remain on deck they wandered to the fire that a house elf was holding his head in. (such odd, ugly little creatures, he was almost loath to take them all onto his boat each trip, but magic tended to be inefficient in cleaning dust out of the cracks)

It took a few seconds to deliver the simple command that made it explain itself but it took much longer to understand what the thing had been talking about. To remember that the child it went on about was theirs. They were due to sail back in the next few days anyway and whatever was going to happen to the boy while the house was empty must have already happened, no reason to spoil the trip.

They had stopped in Egypt to see the curses that had held the civilisation together. They had apparated into the desert for a romantic lunch and his dagger had split their blood through the greying sand, soaking it and loading it with weight greater than mere dust would comprehend and "This, this blood against it all, this is what we live for. We are complete." And they had cast spells over themselves because it wouldn't have done to tan.

Once they arrived back they had a bath drawn and soaked the grains from out of their skin and it was hot to melt it all away and an elf brought the child up to them, it was sleeping and it stank and there was something dried and stuck to the side of his face and its eyelids looked dusted and old and its arm was at an odd angle to the rest of its body. The elf began to babble on about how the boy had been found on the floor in the kitchen, surrounded by pans and bowls and all other kinds of things that he had no interest in. He couldn't bear to look at it, it made him feel old, it made him see what a mess his genes had made and only once it was taken away to be cleaned and fixed did he smile at his wife. "At least now we know he isn't a squib." The elves were instructed to being to teach him about blood purity and wizard superiority and all the appropriate things a young child should learn. They added a violet smelling bath salt and congratulated each other on bringing the best out in their heir and decided that next year they would go to see snow at Christmastime, it was only natural and they had missed the northern lights. They promised each other Norway and tasted belladonna on their lips and that was that.

There had been tutors that had come and gone and friends with children who were more than happy to entertain the Malfoy heir for as long as requested. The day before the Hogwarts Express would leave with his blood on it for the first time in this new generation he stepped into his son's bedroom where there was a young boy with a pale complexion bent over a large, ornate suitcase, half filled with all that a young boy could ever want.

"I am your father. Make me proud."

End.

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